What Was and Should Always Be
by Ke Roth
Summary: Some things were simply meant to go together... always.
1. Chapter 1

**What Was And Always Should Be**

_Plains of Africa, circa a long time ago_

They were not a tribe.

The structure and organization of a tribe was something that would not be within their understanding for millennia to come.

They were little more than a group, wandering the plains of the grasslands of the African plains – but they stayed together.

Together, it was easier to hunt. Together, they were able to find more food. Together, they could care for one another. Together they could fight away the beasts that would hunt them and eat them.

Together, they were safer.

They were not a tribe, and they did not have a leader.

They did follow one of their members, however.

He was old, his hair long gone from much of his ape-like body – but when they followed him, they found food more often than they went hungry. When they followed him, they slept in warmer, safer caves. When they followed him, they found more pools of water and more fields of edible grasses and grains.

They were not a tribe, and they did not have a leader – but they stayed together and followed the old one.

They roamed the plains, working their way through the high grasses searching for animals that were small enough for them to catch and eat while trying to avoid becoming a meal for those predators that could catch and eat them.

On a hot, dry day that was no different than any other, they crested a hill – and spied the grisly carnage below them.

Parts of bodies of beings not unlike themselves were strewn about, bloody trails marking where other parts had been dragged into the high grass to be eaten in a safer environment, or taken back to feed a family of hungry cubs. Great birds scrabbled at the remains, ripping out great gobbets of red flesh from the remnants on the field.

To one side stood one of their kind, staring numbly at the scene – then with a shriek of outrage and grief, ran at the birds, waving one hand to chase the beasts from their meal, while the other hand held an infant to her breast.

It was in vain, for even as one bird would be chased away, another would take its place, devouring the dead flesh.

The group stared at the scene for a moment, then turned, ready to continue their never-ending journey.

A grunt from old one stopped them.

Startled, they turned to watch as he pulled back his lip at them, then watched him move down the hillside toward the shrieking female.

They didn't understand; concepts of reason and comprehension were not yet available to their primitive brains. What they did recognize was that she didn't look like them; their fur was dark, where hers glinted with lighter shades of red – though they did not yet have the ability to understand this difference; they only knew this female was different than they were.

The old one knew she was different as well – but still he approached her, sniffing the air as he approached. The smell of blood and flesh filled the air – but he could also detect the scent of the strange one as well.

Female.

Female – and not one of his.

She gave another shriek, chased away another bird, then caught the scent of the approaching being.

She turned to face him, an expression of fear and defiance on her face. She snarled.

He pulled his lips back to reveal his teeth – but to his surprise as well as hers, made no other move. He sniffed the air again, then thrust his head forward, focusing on her scent once again.

Protectively, she pulled the infant closer to her body, turning to put herself between the intruder and her baby.

He sniffed again, smelling the unique scent of the infant, and finding no hint of his own essence on the infant. He sneered, then reached for the babe, sensing that it was not one of his offspring, instinctively ready to dash it to the ground to protect his gene line from the contamination of another male.

To his shock, the female didn't yield up the child to his demand; instead, she batted him with her fist, pushing him back, then began shrieking at him menacingly.

Taken aback, he stared at the strange creature – then stepped forward once again, but making no move toward the infant.

Uncertain, she watched him for a moment - then leaned forward, sniffing the unmistakable scent of his potency.

She understood without understanding; submit to this male and she could join his group.

She looked at the babe in her arms, understanding that as well; to submit to this male would mean sacrificing the child she was carrying in her arms.

She didn't understand love – that was an emotion that wouldn't even exist while her people existed on this planet – but the child in her arms was not something she was willing to relinquish.

To the male's surprise, she clutched the babe to her breast, then turned, proffering her sex to the male.

The male grunted in confusion – but the scent of this female was too different, too interesting, for him not to want her.

He mounted her, filling her with himself quickly, marking her with his scent – then moved away, looking at the female uncertainly.

She straightened, but rather than proffering the child to him, kept it close to her.

He would have frowned, but even that was not yet to be for his people. Confused, uncertain, he watched as she kept the infant against her body, then started back toward where his people stood watching.

He followed, trailing behind her, her scent now mingled with his – but still teasing and taunting him with its strangeness and its allure.

The people gathered around her, uncertain as well – but the scent of the old one on her marked them as now being one of them.

Reassured, the group walked on.

_Caves at Lascaux, France – circa 28,000 BCE_

The shaman was not their leader; leaders came and went, changing almost as often as the seasons, killed through accident or injury or illness – but the shaman was seemingly eternal.

He knew better. He had seen more than forty summers, outliving fifteen leaders, his three mates, two of his sons and seven of his grandchildren – and yet the clan persevered. That his own life would not go on as the clan's did, however, did not bother him; death was simply another part of the endless cycle of existence, no more to be feared than birth was.

What was to be feared was leaving the clan without a replacement for his position. A leader could serve them with his guidance, his strength, his energy and his bravery – but the shaman gave them wisdom, a stabilizing influence against the frequent impetuousness of the leaders .

But finding someone who was suitable to serve as a shaman was as great a challenge as any leader who ever face – and one where rash thinking and actions were as potentially devastating.

None of his sons or grandchildren had carried the quiet calm that possessed potential candidates – nor, he had come to realize seasons ago, had any others of his clan.

It wasn't until a few seasons before, when a second clan, traveling through their territory as they followed a herd of deer at the end of autumn had asked to winter over with his group that he had found a suitable person.

Behe was the healer of their group; as such, she had been one of their leader's mates until he had been killed in a hunting accident, leaving her to raise a son alone, as none of the hunters would risk mating with her lest they meet the same fate as her mate. Indeed, they would have abandoned her to nature's whims had she not been a gifted healer, for her son possessed an eerie ability of being able to reason out solutions to the clans problems – solutions that were beyond the understanding or ken of the clan.

Ja-loo, on the other hand, recognized the value of those skills; when the spring came and the two clans separated, Behe and her son, Weles, stayed behind.

Ja-loo had begun Behe's training as the clan's newest shaman that same spring – and he had found in the young woman not only the skills of a healer and the serenity of a shaman, but the dynamic temperament of a leader.

She was also beautiful, and as the years passed, Ja-loo realized that he was in love with the young woman.

It was a love he knew she could not return, for she was but half his age; she venerated him as her teacher, he knew, but nothing more.

Still, she had chosen not to take a mate from any of the males in the clan, declining all of the many offers she was given, preferring to spend her time studying and training with Jaloo.

Now, that training was coming to an end. Ja-loo had begun to feel the weight of his time growing heavy; his muscles were weakening, and his bones ached with the chill of every morning. His time here was not yet over, for the temperate climate allowed the tribe to remain in one place throughout the seasons and he would not be an undue burden on them – but even so, he knew his time of being able to be their shaman was ending – and Behe's time was about to begin.

Before she could take her place, however, as shaman for the clan, Jaloo had one more task for his student.

Nodding to her across the early morning fire, he ignored the aches in his bones and made his way to his feet, his apprentice following him in silence.

As was the custom, they made their way to the egde of the small stream that provided water to the camp, stripped, then quickly washed themselves in the brisk water, ceremonially purifying themselves for the day's work, then dressed in leggings and tunics made from soft hides, Behe gratefully accepting the heavy fur cloak he proffered against the chill air of the late winter morning.

Following him to the entrance to the caves, she watched as he lit one of torches that stood against the opening to the cavern, then with all due solemnity, followed him into the darkness.

This was a place she had not yet been invited to see; until now, it had been a place for the hunters and the shaman alone. What this place held, she did not know, for it was not something of which the others spoke. With a shiver of fear and anticipation, she followed Ja-loo, reminding herself that not only was he her teacher, but he was her friends as well.

He would not put her life in danger.

Bolstered by that knowledge, she walked behind him down the wide passage, her eyes focused on his feet, carefully stepping where he did, trying not to notice how the top of the cave seemed to press down upon them.

They walked for some time within the cave, Ja-loo leading her through a series of twists and turns that he had learned only through repetition; without such an experienced guide to lead her, Behe knew she would have quickly become lost in the intricate passages.

After a time, his pace slowed, growing reverential as they approached their destination. Finally, he lowered the torch, and urged her to remove the heavy hide and place it on the cavern floor.

She followed his command, then, again at his direction, settled herself on the hide.

"Behe," he said quietly, his voice rich and low, commending Behe's attention and sending a shiver down her spine, "this place is for our hunters, our leaders – and our shaman. Here, we honor the spirits of all that is around us, all that is within us. Here we thank those spirits for the richness of our life, for the animals that surround us, for the life those spirits grant to our people."

He took the torch once more and held it to a small pile of dry kindling and small branches that he had assembled into a rough pyramid, quickly setting the dry wood on fire.

Behe nodded as she watched, quickly memorizing the type of wood he had used and the way he had organized the branches; there was reason, she knew, in everything he did – and it was her responsibility to learn those reasons in order to pass them on to the next shaman.

That he did not explain himself bespoke the degree to which he appreciated her intelligence; he knew that she could – and would – reason the answer for herself – and if she could not, she would not hesitate to ask him.

Indeed, he thought, he was leaving his people in capable hands.

Seeing the flames established, he took his place beside her on the hide watching as the flames began to illuminate the far wall – and Behe gave a soft gasp.

There, figures of the animals that roamed the plains and hills appeared on the wall, the flames dancing their light against them, making them prance and cavort about the wall; as they flickered, she could see the hunters that adorned the walls chasing after them, hunting them.

But the art wasn't just about the hunt, she realized quickly; here, they celebrated not only the hunters and their prey, but the power and majesty of the animals around them.

Here, the mighty aurochs rippled with strength, the deer leapt and cavorted about, the bears roared, and the horses galloped.

Here, the animals around them showed their powerful spirits to the hunters, who honored them and the life they provided to the people.

Ja-loo watched as Behe studied the paintings, nodding his approval as he saw the understanding dawn in her eyes – and smiled.

As the flames began to die back, he reached for her hand, raising her to her feet, then led her to a section of the wall that was not yet marked; placing her hand against the wall, he drew a small portion of the red ocher from the pouch he wore about his neck and sucked it into his mouth, then quickly breathed the dust over her hand.

Spitting out the rest of the powder, he told her to remove her hand, revealing the outline.

"This is your mark, Behe; your spirit is now forever among those who have come before us," he intoned solemnly. "When my time is over, you will take my place as shaman of the clan, and I know our people will persevere and thrive. I am honored to know that you will be their guide and their counselor," he added quietly.

But as he turned to face her, he saw no joy in her expression; indeed, the flickering flames glinted against the tears in her eyes.

"Behe?" he asked worriedly, suspecting she was unsure of her skills despite her years of training.

"Do not speak of leaving the people, Ja-loo; they love you. They will never be the same when you are gone," she protested.

He shook his head. "Death comes to everyone – but with you to guide them, I know our people will go on."

"Then… I will not be the same," she amended.

Ja-loo smiled regretfully. "You lack faith in yourself," he said. "You should not; you are capable and skilled and caring…"

"I am not worried about being shaman," she said instantly. "You have taught me well – and I shall honor your teachings. But…" She hung her head.

"But…?" he said with a smile, tenderly reaching for her, lifting her chin until she faced him.

They stared into one another's eyes for a long moment.

She reached for his hand, savoring the familiar touch of his rough fingers, now beginning to gnarl with age and infirmity – but still strong and powerful.

"But… I do not want you to leave," she said quietly. "I wish you to stay… with me. I love you, Ja-loo."

She drew his hand to her lips, kissing it tenderly.

"Behe…" he said uncertainly.

"I have loved you since the first time I saw you. Since I heard you speak. Since I learned of your wisdom, and your kindness and your generosity and your compassion. I have loved you since the times you sat with Weles when I was sick, and the nights you told him stories when he could not sleep."

He tried to brush aside her words. "Behe, you mistake your feelings of respect for feelings of passion…"

It was her turn to smile. "And you would choose someone as naïve as that to guide our people?" she laughed.

Despite his concern, he laughed in response; Behe was nothing is not brutally honest about herself, her abilities – and her emotions, he reminded himself.

As I must be, he added. "I'm an old man, Behe," he pointed out. "I have sons and daughters older than you – and grandchildren almost your age."

"And Cree-sa is heavy with child," Behe added, reminding him of his eldest granddaughter. "Soon you will be a great-grandfather. But age is not just a matter of the body," she reminded him. "Age is in the spirit – and your spirit is young and powerful, Ja-loo.

"You are not old, Ja-loo. Not to me. I see your strength, your power, your wisdom; I see your kindness, your love of your people, your care of their spirits – and these are not the acts of an old man," she said.

He studied her face, seeing the tears there – then raised his hand to run it through her thick red hair.

"Behe…"

"Ja-loo," she countered – then leaned close to him, pressing her lips to his.

He started at the touch – then answered her in kind, kissing her back.

The kiss grew in intensity as he responded to her touch; guiding her to the thick hide, he quickly loosened the ties that held her clothes on as she did they same for him and they began to caress one another.

She laughed. "Not so old, Ja-loo," she pointed out as she caressed his aroused manhood.

Perhaps not, he agreed silently.

Later, they lay on the hide, still wrapped in one another's arm, the lowering flames of the fire casting shadows of their bodies against the cave walls.

"Behe?"

"Ja-loo," she answered.

"I love you," he said softly.

She smiled, pressing her face against his chest, breathing in the scent of his body, then sighing contentedly.

Smiling, he pulled the hide over their bodies – and shortly after, the sound of soft laughter and contented sighs echoed through the cavern.


	2. Chapter 2

_Egypt, circa 3,000 BCE_

Bektatun poured the measure of the heavy sweet beer that she had just brewed into the pot that the young boy held out, then smiled at him. "That's your father's measure for today," she said.

He looked at it uncertainly. "It's smaller than yesterday's!" he protested.

"Yesterday was a work day; today is his day of rest! The ration is always smaller on a rest day," she explained with amused patience.

The boy frowned. "That doesn't seem right," he said. "He's as thirsty today as yesterday."

"You should not argue with the brewer," a stern voice intoned from behind the boy. "She knows the rules concerning rations – and you do not."

Startled by the ominous voice, the boy whirled around and faced his opponent – then seeing who faced him, raced out of the small room, spilling half of the contents of the container as he ran.

"That tone of voice might work to keep your foremen in place, Master Architect, but it's making more work for me! Now I'm going to have to track down Pnaaku's father and give him the rest of his ration!" she complained.

"After I get mine," he said, placing an earthen jug on the counter. "And a full measure, please; today has not been a rest day for me," he reminded her.

"They never are for you, Pet-e-khons," she replied, her voice softening. "You work too much," she added, then turned and dipped the ladle into the beer pot, quickly filling the man's jug.

"That is because there is always something that had to be done, Bektatun," he sighed. "Meetings with the pharaoh's advisers, meetings with the priests, planning for the next building, selecting the materials, traveling to the quarries – even reviewing the ration vendors," he added with a smile.

Bektatun smiled knowingly at Pet-e-khons. They had met a few years before when he had been supervising the building of a temple near her home; the workers had been praising the beer she brewed and Pet-e-khons had decided to sample the wares.

Upon seeing her beauty, however, he had decided to sample her other wares as well – as a then chief architect, he had some degree of liberty with the single women of the village – but Bektatun had had other ideas.

To his astonishment, she had rebuffed his invitation – but after a few more visits to her storefront, they had become not lovers, but good friends. Now, Pet-e-khons made a point of stopping at Bektatun's shop as often as he could – which was not, he admitted, nearly as often as he would have liked.

"Well, this ration vendor needs to make sure one of the pharaoh's workers gets his fair measure of beer," she laughed. "Walk with me to find Pnaaku's father?" she asked.

"If you will share the evening meal with me after," he agreed.

She raised a brow in amused question. "No meetings tonight? No drawings to be made?"

He gave rueful laugh. "Yes – but my work can wait until after we eat."

She laughed, the soft laugh that delighted him, stilling his troubled spirit and restoring the sense of calm he needed to properly design the buildings that his pharaoh preferred. Growing contented, he watched as she closed up the shopfront of her home, poured the replacement ration of beer, then led Pet-e-khons out of the rear door.

The sun was near to setting, and in the faint light left, the narrow paths between the small one-room homes was precarious; knowing the way to the workers homes well, Bektatun took Pet-e-khons hand in hers and led him through the winding streets.

They walked for quite a time before Bektatun found the home of Pnaaku and his father ; the man was clearly pleased to see Bektatun – with or without the beer – and was about to invite her into the home when he saw Pet-e-khons grimly standing beside her.

The invitation died on his lips before he could utter a word. Meekly accepting the beer, he wished the two a good night, then closed the door.

Bektatun looked at her companion then rolled her eyes. "Would it hurt for you to smile once in a while, Pet-e-khons?" she asked. "You always look so grim; it's no wonder they're all terrified of you!"

He shook his head. "They shouldn't be; I may be the master architect, but I am not the royal architect. I'm not of divine blood: my parents were workers just like they are. I was just fortunate that one of the temple priests noticed that I could draw and sent me to school. I owe my position to a little luck – but quite a lot of hard work," he added.

"Too much hard work," she repeated.

"No more than you," he countered, "though yours is much more physical than mine," he added. "I never understood why you haven't married and found a man to help you in your brewery."

"Finding a man is one thing; finding a man who wants to work hard is another thing all together. The few who have been interested in marrying me seemed more interested in having access to all the beer they can drink – without helping me brew it – and in having the right to bed me whenever the mood suits him."

"And…?" Pet-e-khons pressed.

She gave him a sly grin. "It's hard enough to support myself – I have no desire to support a worthless husband – and as for a man bedding me when _he_ wants, well, you know what I think of that!" she replied.

He rubbed the ridge of his nose, still crooked from where she had struck him on his ill-fated attempt to seduce her.

She gave a soft laugh, then took his hand. "But I'm glad you forgave me," she said.

"There was nothing to forgive; I was presumptuous…"

"You were – and pompous and arrogant," she reminded him. "But you've mellowed with time."

He shook his head. "On the contrary: I've mellowed – because of you."

She laughed. "In that case, you can repay me by making dinner for me!"

"That won't be much of a repayment, I fear," he apologized. "I'm not much of a cook."

She frowned, surprised. The man's rank granted him the privilege of having a cook among his servants – and indeed, she had often seen the man in the food stalls, gathering his master's rations. "What of your cook?" she asked.

Pet-e-khons gave a short laugh. "We have long ago come to an understanding: when he first came to my service, he would prepare elaborate meals for me – which I would ignore until my work was done – at which point the food was spoiled. Rather than continue to waste the food, he now collects my rations from the vendors, sells it to the workers, pockets an unreasonable portion of the proceeds for himself, and uses the balance to purchase some basics – grains, dates, figs – and leaves them for me so that I can cook for myself when I am hungry. Regrettably, my skill as an architect surpasses that of my skills as a cook," he sighed.

"Then why not dismiss him, and simply collect your rations for yourself?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, I must keep him in my employ – in part because it is expected that I be able to properly entertain guests – if I ever had them – but also because I rarely have time to gather my rations," he admitted.

"You find the time to visit my stall every day," she pointed out. "Or is it simply that your beer ration is too important to forsake?" she added, teasing him gently.

He smiled. "Your beer is the best in the village," he replied. "But… " He stopped in mid-sentence, gesturing at the entrance to a small stone building a few hundred yards away. "That is my home," he pointed out.

Leasing her through the darkening night, they reached the front door; opening it, he led her in, then took a burning oil lamp from a ledge by the door and moved toward a small firepit.

Lighting a fire, the room took on a soft glow, illuminating the small area that made up the main living room.

"Please, be seated. I'll see what I have…"

"Let me help you," Bektatun offered, and without waiting for his agreement or refusal, joined him as he moved to the small kitchen area.

Exploring, they found enough ingredients to create an impromptu dish, which Bektatun began to assemble in one of the cooking pots, then placed it near the fire.

"I hadn't meant for you to cook for me," Pet-e-khons apologized as they sat near the flames, savoring the heat in the rapidly cooling night air of the desert – only to hear her laugh softly in reply.

"If only your workmen could hear you, Pet-e-khons," she said. "Apologizing – to a woman! To the beer vendor! They would not believe that this is the fearsome Pet-e-khons speaking. They would ask who has bewitched you…"

"And I would say it was Bektatun," he answered.

She bristled, have in indignation – and half in fear. "I have cast no spells on you!" she seethed, starting to rise to her feet.

He grabbed at her hand, hastily pulling her down to his side once more. "I did not mean it that way!" he insisted. "I meant… I meant…"

Lost for the words – or rather, lost at how to use the ones he knew – he looked away, letting his eyes turn to the flames of the fire pit.

She followed his gaze, then murmured, "I love watching the flames, Pet-e-khons."

He nodded, understanding, agreeing. "I do as well. Indeed, it was when I first tried to draw pictures of them that the priests recognized my talents and took me away to study."

To Bektatun's surprise, however, she could hear sadness in his tone. "You didn't want to go?" she asked. "But wasn't it an honor to go to school?"

"It was – and I was flattered, and my parents were very happy for me. But it meant leaving them while I was studying. By the time I returned home many years later, they were dead, and my brother and his family had moved away. I have been alone ever since then," he admitted.

She reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I am sorry, Pet-e-khons. But if you are so lonely, why not find a woman and get married?"

He tightened his grasp on her hand – then released it. "My work. It fills my days and my nights, my thoughts and my dreams. A wife would always be second to my work."

"She wouldn't have to be," Bektatun objected. "If you cared for her, she could become more important," she suggested.

"She could – but I am the pharaoh's servant first; as long as I build for him, his needs must come first. I cannot permit myself to serve two masters – the pharaoh and a wife, and what woman would want to marry a man who promises that she will never be first in his heart?"

"An arranged marriage then," she suggested. "Not for love, but for practicality. She could provide for your home, your family, your body, your companionship – and you would provide for her a home, safety and security."

"And what would she get in return?" he countered.

"Husbands do have certain obligations to their wives, Pet-e-khons," she said firmly. "Providing a home, securing a future… siring a family…"

He studied her for a long time, then reached for her hand, murmuring, "Bektatun…"

"The porridge," she interrupted, pulling away, taking the ladle and stirring the pot; as she did so, the rich scent of the cooking grains began to fill the small room.

"That smells delicious, Bektatun," Pet-e-khons said. "I have to admit that it has been some time since I've actually wanted to eat anything. Eating my own cooking is not very appetizing."

She nodded, noticing his gaunt frame, well-muscled, but quite lean. "A wife would at least keep you well fed," she pointed out.

"Only if she cooked as well as you do," he objected.

Bektatun laughed. "You haven't even tasted it yet!"

He harrumphed noisily. "Brewess, I can look at a piece of raw stone and see the potential of the building within; I think I can assess the outcome of a meal by simply smelling it!" he countered.

"Well, it will be good, but it needs time," she said softly. "If I had known I was going to be cooking this tonight, I would have started it earlier. When I cook for myself, I usually start it early in the day and let it simmer beside the fires that I use for the beer," she explained – the hesitated before adding, "If you would like it, I could cook some for you at the same time. You could take it with you when you get your beer.

"Or," she added softly, "you could stay and have your meal with me. Then I could nag at you to eat, just like a wife, but you could leave after the meal; you wouldn't have to be concerned about a wife interfering with your work."

Pet-e-khons studied her for a moment. "That would hardly be fair to you; cooking for me, feeding me…"

Bektatun met his eyes. "You are not the only one who is alone, Pet-e-khons. I didn't become a brewess because I loved the stink of the wort and yeast; I did so because it meant could support myself after my family died. There isn't a day that passes that I don't miss them; an evening that goes by that I don't wish that I were not alone.

"I don't seek a husband because I have yet to find a man who wants to marry me – not my beer or my body, but me! But that doesn't mean that I want to spend the rest of my life alone," she explained.

He studied her, seeing for the first time the loneliness in her eyes – then extended a hand toward her face, a thumb softly outlining the angle of her jaw.

She was, he thought, beautiful – even more beautiful than the first time he had seen her.

His fingers extended, reaching to weave themselves into her hair, then pulled her toward him – half expecting her to resist, half expecting that she would punch him in the nose, just as she had on their first meeting.

And, for a moment, she did resist – then yielded, letting him pull her to him.

The kiss was gentle, tender and soft – then he felt her moving closer, her body pressing against his as the kiss deepened and grew in intensity.

In the flickering light of the flames, they sought out one another's bodies, sating their physical needs even as they quenched their own aching loneliness.

After a long time, they lay still beside one another, Pet-e-khons running his fingers along the length of her bare back, feeling her soft shiver of delight as he did so.

"Bektatun…"

"Mmm?" she purred.

"Marry me," he said.

"No," she said softly. "You were right; you are the Master Architect. Your work must come first – and I don't want to be second to that or anything else."

Disappointed, he started to object only to feel her fingers press to his lips.

"But… come to my shop when you can – and I will cook for you, nag you to eat – and you will drink my beer, provide for my future… father my children…"

"And keep you from being alone," he promised.

"And keep me from being alone," she agreed.

He kissed her, then wrapped his around her waist, pulling her toward him in the faint glow of the dying fire.


	3. Chapter 3

**What Was And Always Should Be – part 3**

_Somewhere on the Mediterranean coast, ca 1140_

Jean de Boves, Comtes d´Amiens, Seigneurs de Boves, second son of Engerrand and heir to absolutely nothing of his father's, slowly opened his eyes.

Despite his cracked lips, he managed a smile. "Am I dead?" he whispered, his mouth parched and dry.

"No," the image before him said, then reached an arm beneath his shoulders, half lifting him to a seated position, then pressing a wooden cup to his lips.

Tasting the well-watered wine in his mouth, he tried to gulp down the contents of the cup, but the angel before him pulled it away, then lowered him back to the makeshift bed on which he lay.

"Slowly," she admonished. "Slowly."

He nodded his understanding, then raised his own head, opening his mouth for a second sip.

Being an angel, she obliged, granting him a larger mouthful this time – then once more pulled the cup away.

Content for the moment, he lay back, letting his eyes play upon her beauty. She was an angel, he knew; he could see the halo shining about her head, and there was no mistaking the beautiful wings that stood out behind her. But if she was an angel, then he was dead – but she had just said that he wasn't. He wouldn't have minded if he was dead, he thought – he had left nothing behind on this Earth; all that his father had held had gone to his brother, leaving him little more than penniless, with a minimal holding that his brother had granted him – land, but with no funds to provide for it or the tenant farmers it held.

Bereft of hope and money, and with no hope of being able to hold his lands, he had accepted the call of Bernard of Clairvaux to rescue the Holy Land from the heathens – and in the process procure a share of the gold and wealth the Muslims possessed. Since he had died, he thought, he would at least be assured of a place in heaven – but why did it hurt so much to be dead? he wondered.

An urgent need to cough forced him to sit up, muscles straining at the effort until the angel moved to support him once again. Feeling as though his lungs would burst forth with each cough, he cried out as the spasm finally ended, only to feel the cup press to his lips once more. He drank again, more deeply this time, then lay back; clearing his eyes, he stared at the angel once more.

There was no halo this time; having moved from the light, he could see that the glowing gloriole had been nothing more than sunlight playing through the tangles of her copper-red hair, her wings the tattered remnants of the long white sleeves of her chemise.

"I'm not dead, am I?" he said.

"No," she repeated, "though you came close to it. Do you remember what happened?"

He closed his eyes, thinking for a moment – then slowly nodded. "We were aboard a ship sailing for Constantinople. There was a storm…"

"The ship sank," she ended for him. "You went into the sea with the rest us…"

He frowned. "You were on the ship?" he interrupted.

She nodded.

He gave a snort of derision. "Camp follower," he muttered disdainfully.

"I am _not _a camp follower," she countered sharply, "and even if I was, you should be a little more courteous to the person who saved your life!"

"You? Saved my life?" he growled. "More likely that I saved yours."

"Not with all that finery you had on! You would have sunk like a stone – like the rest of your friends! – if I hadn't pulled your coat off you then pulled you to shore." Startled, he glanced down at himself, then realized she was telling the truth: his heavy coat was gone, leaving him in only a thin cotton shirt. A moment later, he realized it was the only thing he was wearing.

"Where are my clothes?" he barked.

"Over there," she said, pointing. "You were soaked to the bone; if I'd let you stay in them you would have taken sick – sicker," she amended. "As it was, I wasn't sure you were going to make it. I've been feeding you willow tea as often as you would swallow it, but you have been burning with a fever for the last week. I found some blankets and supplies that washed ashore…"

"Ashore? Ashore where?"

"Here," she said, gesturing around her, "wherever 'here' may be," she added.

He started to sit up. "Wherever it is, I need to find out what has happened to the others…"

"They're dead," she said bluntly.

"What?"

"Dead. I've buried the ones that washed ashore; some of the others came in near the water's edge, but I couldn't get to them before the tide took them back," she said hollowly.

"Dead," he echoed – then heard a faint sound.

"Horses?"

She nodded. "Someone must have released them from the hold before the ship sank. Some swam ashore. I caught a few of them – but the others made their way into the woods."

"We'll need to catch them," he said, trying to rise from the bed – then falling back, his hand moving to his head.

"Not today," she said, pushing him back to the bed, then turned back to the small fire that burned near the bed. She had found a rock with a fairly deep hollow; filling it with water from a wineskin, she then used a stick to move a small rock out from the depths of the fire, then dropped it into the hollow. The water sizzled then steamed; she added a pinch of something, then dipped the cup into the hollow and brought it to his lips.

"Be careful, it's hot," she advised.

He sipped at it, hissing at the bitter flavor and trying to pull away – but he was far too weak to be able to fight her off. He gulped the bitter brew down, then gasped and lay back. "What is that?"

"Willow tea. I was lucky to have my herb bag with me when the ship went down; I haven't seen anything here that I recognize," she said.

Comprehension dawned. "You're a healer?"

She nodded. "My father taught me how to make teas, potions, salves… I can set bones and cauterize wounds…"

"And you came on the crusade to treat the warriors?" he asked, amazed.

"You 'warriors' have physicians enough for yourselves," she said disdainfully. "Father and I came along to treat the others."

"And where is he now?"

"Dead," she said numbly. "I think. I haven't found his body, but he was beside me when we jumped into the water – but I lost sight of him in the storm. When I saw you, I thought you were him – that's why I went to save you – but when I reached you, I realized you weren't my father. "

Jean frowned, confused as to why she might confuse him with her father – then sheepishly raised a hand to his balding head.

She smiled. "He was bald too," she agreed. "I hadn't realized you were – you always had your hat on when I saw you on deck."

"I hope you're not sorry you saved me," he said.

"Don't flatter yourself," she replied. "I would have left you to the waves if I had found my father… but I didn't," she managed, trying hard to choke back the sob that threatened.

Stricken by the woman's obvious grief, he reached for her hand, and gently held it. "I am sorry… I'm sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Beverand," she said. "Beverand, daughter of Paul, healer of Toulouse."

He bowed his head. "Beverand, daughter of Paul, please accept my condolences at your loss – and please accept my thanks for saving my life. I am…"

"I know. Jean deBoves. Father had hoped to arrange a meeting with you," she added.

Jean shook his head. "It would have been to no purpose. I had no position to offer him. My father left me nothing and my brother gave me naught but a small piece of land worth little – and with no way to support the people who lived upon it. Upon the call for the first year's taxes, I would have had to borrow money from my brother or Alphonse of Toulouse – and then be indebted to him for the rest of my life," he sighed. "I would not do that to myself. I returned the land to my brother and came to make my fortune in this effort."

"By killing the Muslims and stealing their lands?"

"It is a Christian land! It belongs to us!" he protested haughtily.

Beverand rolled her eyes. "You are no more a devout Christian than I, Jean de Boves. You found yourself saved from death – yet not one word of thanks or praise to our lord. You learn of the deaths of dozens of men you knew – but not one prayer for their eternal souls. No, you went on this crusade not because you wanted to save the Holy Land from the infidels, but because you had no hope for the life of riches and splendor that you had become accustomed to…"

"And you?" he said scornfully. "Why did you go?"

"I had no choice. My father hoped to marry me off to whoever would pay a dowry. That I am not a camp follower does not change that fact that, in the end, I was to be prostituted – to a husband perhaps, but prostituted nonetheless, forced into a marriage I do not want," she admitted. "And now… now I do not have even that," she added.

He squeezed her hand gently, and she drew her attention back to him.

"Your hand grows over warm, Jean de Boves. Your fever is returning. I'll make some more tea and see if I can find something you can eat. Fortunately, many of the goods on the ship have managed to float to these shores, just as we did – and among them the chickens that were aboard. Give me a little time and we will have some roasted chicken and broth."

For several days Beverand tended to her ailing charge, then, as his strength slowly returned, they began to explore their temporary home – and to come to know his tender nurse.

That she was a beauty was unmistakable – but she was bright and witty, sharp-tongued as well – but with enough learning and wisdom to make her japes and barbs accurate – and thought worthy.

For her part, Beverand found the man to be far less cocksure than she had thought at first; experience seemed to have tempered his attitude from being reckless and cavalier to being more thoughtful and reflective – but with a smile that lit his face – and, she noted, with a body that bore evidence of a life that had involved less of a carefree existence than one of hard work.

The land the explored together turned out to be a mostly rocky island, several miles in diameter, with open plains and fields hiding behind the first line of rocky hills, sheltered from the sea's winds by tall trees stony hills. The horses that had some ashore found grazing lands on those grassy plains, while the chickens quickly made themselves at home as well, dining on seeds that had fallen from the trees and wild grasses.

Climbing to the highest point on the island, Jean quickly realized that they were in a midst of a small chain of islands; given time and tools, he knew, they should be able to make themselves a boat and sail to the next island, and the next, until they finally reached the mainland.

Whichever mainland that might be.

"And then what?" Beverand asked one night as they sat before the fire, Jean sharpening the edge of the hand axe they had found in one of the ship's crates.

"Pardon?"

"And then what, Jean de Boves? When your done building your raft and have sailed to the shores of wherever you're going – what then? Do you try to catch up to the Crusade so that you can kill strangers and steal their possessions and claim them as your own? Or will you return to the land your brother owns?

"For my part, I will stay here," she informed him. "There is food and land and water enough for me - and I have no desire to leave this place to return to a marriage I do not want or to be forced by a man whom I do not love – and who does not love me."

He stared at her for a long time – then turned away.

When she woke the next morning, he was gone.

For a moment, she panicked, realizing she was alone on this island – then steadied herself. She had food, water – given time she would find a way to shelter herself… it would be a lonely life, but better than the one her father had sought to give her – a life spent with a husband who cared nothing for her.

She looked about her, then began to gather up the supplies she would need. It would take time to move them all – but she had time. All the time in the world.

As she entered the clearing that the horses had found, she stopped.

Jean, his shirt off in the heat of the summer sun, looked up and smiled at her.

"A shelter over here – for now. A house as soon as I can fell some more trees. If these are the Greek islands, as I think they may be, than the winters should not be too cold – and in time, we'll either find a way to the other islands so that we can trade, or perhaps they will find us. We can trade the horses, the chickens…"

She stared at him.

He studied her for a moment, thinking he understood her reluctance. "I'll not defile you, Beverand; if you'll not have me as a husband, then we can live as brother and sister. But be assured, I'll not force you to do something you do not want, with a man you do not love."

Beverand moved to him, placing her hands on his chest – then lifted her head to him. "Kiss me, Jean de Boves," she said softly.

He smiled, then did as he had been bidden.

"Now take me to our home and bed me as a husband should," she said.

"It's only two trees, Beverand."

"For now – just as I am only Beverand – for now. Bed me – and make me Beverand de Boves," she said.

Smiling again, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the shade of the two fallen trees.

_England, the reign of Elizabeth I_

"I would speak with you, Lady Howard."

Looking up at the rich baritone voice, Beverly Howard set aside her embroidery, rose from her chair and joined the man who had called to her.

"You wished to speak with me, Ambassador Picard?" she said politely.

"You are a lady-in-waiting to her Royal highness, the Queen, are you not?" he asked.

"You know that I am, sir," she replied.

"Perhaps, then you can advise me as to her Majesty's calendar? I would seek an audience with her regarding the proposed visit of his Majesty, the King of France," the older man asked.

The young woman looked back at the other women who were only half paying attention to their embroidery, looking for their counsel.

One, a dark haired beauty that had long served the queen nodded her approval – then as the two left the room, a general titter ran over the gathering. The French ambassador's reputation with the ladies of the court was well known – and, most of them could attest, well-earned – though for the last few months he seemed to have dedicated himself to finding a way to capture the heart of the youngest maid at court and to take her to his bed – though without luck so far, they all knew.

"It's about time someone took her to bed," one of them laughed.

"It's surprising no one has before! She's pretty enough," another said.

"Perhaps too pretty?" another suggested.

"Young Beverly is not over-concerned with her looks, ladies," the dark-haired woman replied. "Nor is she so pious that she offends a willing man – but she is a clever one, and many is the man who isn't interested in a woman who can outwit him."

The others chuckled. "It doesn't take much of a woman to outwit a man," one offered.

"No, but one must let them think they do, lest their… egos… become deflated," another replied.

A ribald laugh ran over the ladies – a laugh that instantly quieted as the door to the Queen's chamber opened and one of her chambermaids exited.

Some distance down the hall, the ambassador walked beside the young woman, her hands chastely held before her as they spoke in low tones.

"Ambassador, matters regarding the Queen's calendar should be handled through my mistress, Lady Jane," she advised.

"Your mistress is otherwise engaged," he reminded her.

Beverly Howard blushed, knowing that the lady in question was currently seducing her lover of the moment in a secluded alcove of the library. As with most of the affairs of the court, it was an open secret, with everyone – except, perhaps, the Queen herself – knowing who was engaged with whom.

Of course, the public knowledge was also kept reasonably tacit; if these relationships were ever to become publically acknowledged, it would most likely mean the dismissal of those involved from court, and possibly the loss of their family's lands and fortunes. That everyone at court was equally guilty was the only thing that kept the affairs from being used as blackmail between the parties involved.

The ambassador stopped at the private secretary's office, gesturing for the young woman to precede him into the room, then followed her in, closing the door behind him.

Reaching the desk, she leaned across it, reaching for the heavy book – then suddenly felt the ambassador press against her.

"Ambassador!" she cried out as he groped at her, hungrily kissing the back of her neck.

"Do not cry out, my dear. You do not want the guards to catch us; dalliances among the courtiers are silently accepted – but with a foreign national? We would both be exiled, me back to France and you back to your family's farm. No, be quiet, my love," he insisted as he pulled her skirts higher.

"My lord!" she protested as his hands ran over her now exposed buttocks, cupping their smooth round globes , then pressing his legs between hers, his fingers seeking out the soft, moist depths they concealed within.

She gave as soft cry, not so loud as to alert the guards, but loudly enough for him to hear. "Please!" she begged softly.

"Yes, my dear," he murmured, reaching to the front of his trousers and freeing himself, then hurriedly setting himself to the task at hand.

He gave a soft grunt as he found the mark he sought, then began to move within her, setting a pace that far more languid than discretion should have permitted.

"My lord, please…"

He pressed himself against her, whispering in her ear. "Say it again, my little one. Say 'please'," he murmured.

"My lord… Oh, my lord!" she cried softly as his fingers, caressing her, brought her to the edge of ecstasy.

"My Beverly," he replied a moment later as his own climax approached. "Oh, Mon Dieu!"

He pressed deeply against her, feeling her body respond in waves of spasms in response to his – then slowly withdrew himself, refastened his trousers, then lowered her skirts.

She turned, her face pale from surprise, her cheeks flushed from effort.

"My lord…" she began, only to be stopped by his kiss.

"My Beverly," he replied softly. "I am sorry that we can only meet like this," he whispered in her ear. "If your queen were to know we had secretly married we would both be ruined. It is dangerous enough that we even meet like this! But I have arranged for you – and several other of her Majesty's younger aides – to spend next month in service to our court."

"I would not be permitted to stay on after they leave, however," she pointed out.

"It would be permitted – if she did not want you to return, if you had embarrassed the queen… if you were with child," he said with a knowing smile.

Beverly smiled. "Ah, so that is why you have been so frequent a visitor to her Majesty's court the last few days – so that I am with child even before we leave."

He smiled – then kissed her passionately. "Do not underestimate your charms, my beloved; that I come to you so often is only because I cannot take you to my bed and coit you properly – as a French man should please his wife." He raised her hand to his lips. "Tomorrow? After prayers, my wife?"

"Tomorrow," she agreed – then kissed him soundly. "Tomorrow… my husband."

_Oklahoma, circa 1920_

Johnny Pickerd grabbed the gun from the dashboard of his truck, shoved it into the front of his pants, then hurried to the back of the vehicle.

"Hurry it up," he admonished the men packing the truck with the crates. "The Feds must know about this place by now! We all need to be out of here before they realize we're here! Is that the last one?" he asked as one of the men pushed a crate into place.

"Forty cases, Johnny," Bevy – his girlfriend – confirmed. "Let's git before the heat shows up!"

Johnny took a wad of cash from his pocket, counted off five hundred dollars and started to hand it to the tallest of the men. Before he could give the man the money, however, a smile crossed his face; reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out another five hundred and handed it over as well.

"Good work, Fred," he told the man. "Here's some 'spreadin' around' money. Make sure everyone gets their share. Come on, Bevy," he added.

She moved from the back of the truck to the side door, sliding in over the bench seat, then leaned over and opened his door for him.

He slid in beside her, gave an appreciative glance at the length of leg that her skirt revealed, ran a hand over it – then started the truck.

"Why the extra cash, Johnny?" she asked. "You've never done that before."

He chuckled. "Nah. Never needed to – but the Feds are getting' a little too close fer comfort. They wanna bust us bootleggers – but they'd rather go after a bunch of counterfeiters first."

"You gave Fred some bad money?" she said, horrified. "If they catch him…"

"He's knows they second five is fake," he assured her. "He'll go spread it around over the next coupla days – and it'll drive the Feds nuts trying to figure out where it's coming from. While they're goin' bananas, we'll be long gone."

"And where are we goin' this time, Johnny?" she asked excitedly.

"Tonight, we're heading to Oklahoma City; got a guy who's gonna take this off my hands – and then baby, we're heading west! Out to California!"

She gave a delighted squeal – then added. "What's in California?"

"Everything! The future, baby. Our future! Land as far as the eye can see – and opportunities for both of us! What do you want, Bevy? Name it – and I'll get it for you!"

"Oh, Johnny, all I really want is you!"

He looked at her, his smile fading – then pulled the truck off the main road, turning down a small side path, and followed it for a brief distance.

"Johnny?" she asked.

"Baby – Beverly… You don't have to put on the act for me," he said in quiet severity. "You're no dumb blondie – and while it works when we're with the rubes, I don't need you to do it for me. I don't want you to do it for me," he added. "I don't love bimbos – I love you. Beautiful, intelligent, insightful Beverly. Tell me what you want," he said firmly.

She studied him for a moment, seeing the stress of their lawless life aging his once youthful face, his balding head further evidence of the effects that their decisions were taking on his body; she reached for face, caressing it.

"I want… I want us to stop doing this," she said softly. "I don't want to always be running, afraid of who is around the next corner – if it's the law, or someone who thinks you cheated him, or some goon who thinks that if he beats you up he can prove he's bigger than the next goon… I want this to end, John."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "It won't be easy, Bevy… Beverly," he amended, remembering how she had once said that she hated the nickname. "I don't have a lot of skills. The Army didn't train me to do much beside fight and not get killed – but that really ain't… isn't," he corrected himself, "enough for life back here."

"You're pretty good at business," she pointed out.

He chuckled. "I'm not sure that rumrunning translates into a successful business," he pointed out.

"I don't know; there isn't much that you haven't encountered – and dealt with successfully," she reminded him.

"And you? What would you do, if we got to California?" he asked.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly," he said.

"I… I thought I might be a good actress," she said, blushing.

"I'd go see any movie you were in," he informed her.

"Thanks – but I think every woman in California might think she was destined to be the next Clara Bow," she added. "Maybe everyone in the United States," she conceded.

"You'd still be the best. Bev… Beverly, do you think that Prohibition will get repealed?" he asked.

She turned pale. "John, don't tell me you want to make liquor for real!" she said, appalled.

"Not liquor – wine," he said. "Back home we used to grow grapes, and my dad would make wine every fall. Not great stuff – but we liked it. They say that grapes grow good in California… that there are places that have good soil and the right climate… we've got some money – real money," he added when she opened her mouth to object, "we could buy up some good land, and when they repeal the law, we could start making some wine."

"If we don't get caught first," she added.

He nodded. "Then let's run this one last load and head west – okay?"

She nodded. "Okay," she said – but there was an uncertainty to her voice that bothered him.

"Beverly?"

She hesitated, then turned to him again. "I don't want to get caught, John. I don't want you to get caught. I don't want our son growing up only getting to see his parents behind the bars of a prison."

He gaped.

"Our son?"

"Or daughter," Beverly demurred.

"Daughter? Beverly, what are you saying?"

She looked down, trying not to look at his eyes, not wanting to see if he was angry. "I'm pregnant, John."

He fell silent. "Pregnant," he managed after a few minutes – then added, "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

He stared at her for a long moment, then repeated, "Pregnant."

She nodded again, then added, "Please don't be mad. I thought I had been careful…"

He stared at her for another long moment, then opened the door of the truck.

She felt the back gate of the vehicle open – then heard a series of crashes of breaking wood and shattering glass. Terrified that he was taking out his rage on the liquor they had just bought, she pushed open her door and hurried to the back of the truck.

He stood on the gate, hefting box after box of illegal booze out of the truck, throwing it to the ground, letting it smash against the rocky road.

As the last case hit the ground, he jumped off the gate, slammed it into place – then reached for her hand. "Come on, Beverly. California's waiting – for the three of us."

They climbed back into the truck; raising his arm, John nodded at her, silently urging her to take a spot beneath its protective embrace.

He started the car, then slowly eased the truck back down the road. Reaching the main road, he turned on to it, slowly easing the aging vehicle to its full speed.

As the truck lurched along the road, a series of cars raced toward them. Beverly tensed – but John simply eased his arm from around her shoulders, raised it in friendly greeting toward the passing Federal officers, then wrapped her in his arm once more.

_Present day_

"Now that we know how each of us feels, perhaps we should not be afraid to explore those feelings."

She stared at him, thinking over his words, then permitted a small smile, uncertain and perhaps a little sad, to cross her face – then leaned forward and kissed his cheek tenderly, blind to the look of terrible pain that crossed his face as she did so.

She pulled away, their heads pressing together – then sat back. "Or perhaps we should be afraid," she answered.

Her answer stung more than he could ever have imagined it would, but he refused to let the pain cross his face. Not while she was looking. Not while there was any chance that seeing how he truly felt – how terribly hurt he was – might sway her from saying what she truly meant.

"I think I should be going now," she said softly.

He nodded, unable to speak lest the words catch in his throat.

He moved toward her, kissing her chastely, then rose with her, escorting her to the door.

She stopped at the door, then managed a wan, "Good night."

He started to echo the sentiment – then stopped himself. "Don't go," he said softly. "Beverly, you're quite right – we have every reason to be afraid. Everyone does, of every new possibility, of every adventure before them. But what glories, what wonder lays before those who dare risk the pain, the loss, the sorrow? I make no promises that there will be no pain for either of us – but I do promise you this: no matter what, I will always be your friend."

"And she didin go, Papa?" David asked sleepily.

"No, son, your Maman didn't go. She stayed and we… talked… for a long, long time," Jean-Luc Picard said, smiling at his wife, sitting beside him on their son's bed.

"And then you got married and had me!" Genevieve announced.

"Not quite that fast – but yes, we did get married a few years later, and a few years after that, we had you, Gené," Beverly replied. "And then your brother a few years later."

Genevieve giggled at the end of the story, drawing her father's attention. "And now it's time for you to go to sleep, my dear," he said firmly, raising her covers so she could snuggle under their downy depths, then tucking it around her chin.

Beverly did the same thing for their son, then tenderly kissed both children.

"Maman?" David called out as she and Jean-Luc moved to the door.

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you and Papa tell the same story tomorrow night?" he begged.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow," his father promised.

Genevieve giggled her delight again, then called out softly, "I love you, Maman. I love you, Papa."

David sleepily echoed the words, then closed his eyes and buried himself under the covers.

The doors slid shut behind the two as they left the room – then Jean-Luc reached for his wife's hand, raising it to his lips.

"I liked that," Beverly said.

"My kissing your hand?" he teased.

"That – but more the part of the story where I stayed and we… talked. You know, I don't remember us doing much talking that night," she teased him back.

He smiled back. "Perhaps not talking, per se – but I think we said things we had both wanted to say to one another for quite a long time."

"Such as, 'Oh, Jean-Luc', and 'yes!' and 'Oh, again' and 'yes, there,' and…"

"And," he interrupted, " 'I love you'."

She smiled. "That most of all." She lay her head against his shoulder, whispering, "I love you, Jean-Luc."

"And I love you, Beverly," he answered. "I think that I have always loved you, from the dawn of time and through all eternity. I think I will love you until time itself ends."

He drew her close, kissing her deeply, feeling her melt against his body – then separated from her, reaching for her hand. "Perhaps we can finish this… discussion… in our bedroom?" he asked.

Laughing, she let him guide her to their bed.


End file.
